


Broken

by HappyHypocrite



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Convan/Treebros if you squint really hard, Evan/Connor if you were squinting so hard you could barely see, Implied Insanity, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Oneshot, Passing Out, burning as self-harm, implied suicidal ideation, mentions of alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyHypocrite/pseuds/HappyHypocrite
Summary: I posted this on the DEH Amino for the Writer’s Compact. I didn’t want to go too long without posting on Ao3, and it did fairly well there.For anyone waiting for me to update my other fic (all two of you) I’m working on another chapter, I’m sorry for the delay,I’m getting caught up in school right now, and man am I bad at it.Anyway, enjoy this.





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on the DEH Amino for the Writer’s Compact. I didn’t want to go too long without posting on Ao3, and it did fairly well there. 
> 
> For anyone waiting for me to update my other fic (all two of you) I’m working on another chapter, I’m sorry for the delay,  
> I’m getting caught up in school right now, and man am I bad at it.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this.

Connor was broken,  
he was broken and he knew it so well the word floated effortlessly off his tongue.

He’d gone three days with nothing.  
No pot, no incidents, no screaming, no matches, no pain, nothing, nothing,  
_nothing_.  
He felt so much red and so much nothing.  
He was so broken.

His skin itched. Larry had been trying to force him into sports for years.

He hefted the bat over his shoulder, each strike against the tree sent a sweet shock that seared from his fingers to his back and ran to his jaw.  
He needed to break it.

He’d lost count of how many times the bat had belted against the tree. He couldn’t breathe.

He’d craved it. He’d thought it’d be satisfying, It was so much more. Once he’d started he couldn’t stop.

He hated it, he needed it, he loved it.

It took him too long to register the sounds of splitting wood grain.

A deep satisfaction settled in his stomach.

Broken.

He was contented, and had created so much more physical damage in one night than he could’ve to his lungs with a pack of cigarettes.

A birthday present that had only collected dust, put to use.

He laughed bitterly to the cold dark air. He forgot to notice his laughter turning hysterical.

At some unimportant time in the morning, he grinned to himself as he slammed Zoe’s car door shut, tossing the two halves of the gift to the bag he’d received it in.

He drove home, chuckling with an empty humour he left the bag in his father’s office to be seen by morning.

He dropped to his bed and slept. Today could finally be over.  
—

Larry never mentioned the bat, he never talked about the glove either. Connor wondered how far he could push the man into uncomfortable uncertainty before he snapped. Like his precious bat. Like his dying son.

—

He avoided school. Zoe was hosting a party soon.

Halloween, out of all unnecessary holidays Halloween is the most redundant. An excuse to be reckless, at best.

He burned a book filled with handwritten sheet music in the sink.

Sink fires are funny, burning to nothing so close to something that could save it.  
He didn’t put his hand in the flames. He wanted to.

She didn’t think the fire in the sink was funny. She hated him and he deserved it. He’d given up a long time ago. She hadn’t, he could tell.

—

He ran a hand the ridges of his lighter. He’d bought it recently. Now the fluid ran down his hand.  
Cold, it burned. His skin was red and, was this how acid worked? He’d never seen anything like this before, the skin breaking and reddening, burning without a flame.

He’d hissed and cried and laughed sharply and rinsed it all off for a while. What a strange feeling. He kept reaching to grab things without thinking, it burned. He’d bandaged it after he’d tried to turn a doorknob and tore a chunk of flesh, he’d clutched at his hand and cried and laughed.  
His skin didn’t itch anymore.

What a silly thing to do.

He’d stopped needing reasons to hurt long ago. He pushed back his nail beds until they bled. He pounded his fists against walls. He tugged his hair until it was torn out. He smiled and waved at cars that sounded a horn in annoyance when he walked into traffic.

“Do you think the rules don’t apply to you?”

No, but the weight of them doesn’t. The world’s such a strange place.

——

He stayed for Zoe’s party.  
He wanted to be loud.

“Hey, sister stalker!”  
It felt satisfying.

He laughed in the face of the boys shocked expression.  
“Yeah, that’s you, you little freak.”

“I—I wasn’t! I didn’t mean—oh god, I’m sorry-“

“I don’t give a fuck Hansen, try this punch or something, it’s great.

What? Can’t hear you freak, speak up.”

“It’s not uh, alcohol, is it.”

Connor grinned.  
“ ‘Course not!”  
It definitely was.

That morning there were a few people passed out on couches, carpets, and one in the bath. Connor wandered the house looking for something interesting to mess with.

Seeing Hansen facedown in the floarboards was pretty entertaining.

Without a second thought, Connor hauled the boy to his room by his underarms. Zoe was asleep somewhere, somehow the rough sounds of Hansen’s body knocking against the ground wasn’t enough to wake her.

Hansen was asleep in Connor’s bed.  
He tucked a pillow beneath the boys head.

Connor drew funny patterns on the boys cast with one of his alcohol markers. Stars and trees and words and buildings and animals and anything he thought of.

That got old quickly.

He drew on paper with the markers instead. He drew the boy at the top of a tree, surrounded by the canopy. He drew the boy awake surrounded by his creepy letters. He drew him with a cast coved in stars and trees and words and buildings and Connors name.

Connor crawled onto his bed, dropping the sketchbook onto the carpeted floor.  
He scrawled the familiar letters in the one blank space between the patterns.

The boys face pressed into Connors pillow.

Connor didn’t want to mess with this boy. It’d been a while since he didn’t crave a person’s reactions. He just wanted to talk. Talk about being broken. What a shame the boy was asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
